


There Was a Time and There Will Be Another

by Jens_Holland



Category: 11th Century CE RPF, Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Medieval, Multi, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Vaguely Fantasy, also goes into the canon era, fyi: i'm doing character and relationship tags as i go, i think that’s enough tags for now hhhh, it's easier that way, like really inaccurate, the history that takes place before the canon era, there’s a lot of that, vaguely based on history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-20 18:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jens_Holland/pseuds/Jens_Holland
Summary: I am a violent multishipper and I browse too many wikipedia pages...This is the result.Nine main ships and many individual stories that span over three decades. The main goal is to stay away from Macbeth’s perspective as much as possible so you get to engage with as many different characters as possible





	1. Suthen (1029)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve given up tagging characters, so I’ll just do it as I go...  
First work on here omg!! Feedback is appreciated!!

Siward and I hadn’t been in England long when Malcolm II came seeking an alliance. We had resided there barely a year, with Siward fostered under King Cnut’s care and I a guest in his court, and yet we were already going to meet a second king. He strode in ahead of his men, composed of pure confidence and rigidness. His great mane of hair was shockingly red, even at his age, and he was still strong. “The Destroyer”, they called him. I never thought to ask why. Our king was young, aged only 34, but the Destroyer was nearly twice that at 62 years. Cnut stood, a grin spread wide across his face. It almost seemed smug to me. He spread his arms in welcome and greeted the other king. Malcolm’s expression did not change.

“Vikings continue to raid our holdings in the north,” he said, cutting straight to his point. “They are your subjects, are they not? The Norsemen of Denmark and Norway are under your rule, and yet they attack my people without provocation. I am here to have something be done about it.”

Cnut’s grin did not falter. “You have kin in the north, as well, and do not forget it. Not so far north as I, but in Orkney where many of my men reside. And also in Caithness.”

“I would not forget it. I have a grandson there. The marriage of my daughter to Jarl Sigurd was arranged to settle land disputes in that region.”

“And to secure a hold of power there. Tell me, Malcolm, does my vast kingdom frighten you?”

I had to start at that. I feared that Cnut was going to provoke Malcolm to the point where I would discover what “The Destroyer” meant. I looked to Siward. My brother, of course, was barely paying any attention. I worried for him often. He had always seemed slightly detached from reality, even as a child. Not to say that all children weren’t, but Siward more than others. He frequently told me of the unicorns and serpents that he saw in the woods, and back home he would talk about Huginn and Muninn. He even believed the stories Father had told us as children. Every conversation always came back to us being descended from the great white bears of the far north.

Cnut’s bellowing laughter brought me back to the kings’ discourse. He approached Malcolm, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. If the Destroyer was taken aback by this, he did not show it.

“You made peace with Sigurd through marriage. How about the same for me?” Cnut said.

“You already have two wives.”

Cnut laughed again, this time with lesser volume. “I suppose I did phrase that poorly. I meant for my sons, or one of them, at least. You have daughters, I have sons. I see a possible and plausible arrangement there.”

“Except for the fact that you’re forgetting one thing,” Malcolm said, stepping aside. “All of my daughters are already married.”

Cnut glanced towards his housecarls and then back to Malcolm. “I don’t see a problem with this.”

“Our faith will not allow it.”

“Ah.” Cnut circled back towards his seat. “Your faith. What, then, shall we do to secure trust between us?”

“My grandson is not yet married.”

The words spoken seemed to startle a young man in the Destroyer’s company. He was strongly built, much like Malcolm, and his hair straddled the line between copper and gold. The king’s grandson, I guessed. Another young man, with dark hair and a scar across his nose and cheek, whispered something to the king’s grandson.

“Unfortunately, I appear to have no daughters,” Cnut said as a mock apology.

“Then perhaps there is a young maid of your court you could spare.” The Destroyer looked directly at me. Cnut followed his gaze.

Though we had known each other for less than a year, Cnut considered me the daughter he never had. Most men prefer sons, but Cnut had three sons, and that was three too many for his taste. He told me once that all he wanted was a daughter. It was in that moment when his eyes met mine that I realized how much I actually meant to him. Malcolm had sensed it the moment he walked into the hall. He was far more cunning than either of us had realized.

Siward looked up towards the ceiling and cawed softly.

Cnut looked back to Malcolm and gave the slightest nod. My heart pounded against my chest. Cnut held out his hand towards me.

“Suthen, if you would . . .”

Before two kings, there wasn’t anything I could do. I didn’t dare to object, especially not before all of Cnut’s lords and housecarls. Especially not before the Destroyer. I rose from my seat and walked down to where the kings stood waiting. I took Cnut’s hand and allowed him to introduce me.

Back home, I was called Suthen, as it was my given name. Suthen Bjornsdottir. In England, I was known as Sibylla. It always seemed to me to be a far fetched anglicization, but it was the name most knew me as. Only Siward and Cnut called me Suthen, and occasionally his sons. There was one other who would come to call me Suthen, as I preferred, but I would have yet to meet them.

“This is Sibylla,” Cnut said to Malcolm. “She is a guest at my court, for now, but I know that her brother will someday be a great lord under my rule, and she would be most suitable for your grandson. She is the closest to a daughter I will ever have.”

Malcolm looked me over, his gaze calculating. I bowed my head.

“Duncan, come forward,” he commanded.

The young man with the copper-gold hair came forward. My intuition had been rewarded.

“This is Duncan mac Crinan. He is my grandson and will be king after my time.”

This surprised me. I had heard from Cnut of the complex way that the line of succession went among the culture of the Celts. From uncle to nephew, cousin to cousin, brother to brother. All this in order to make sure no one in line was missed. I understood why they did it, to prevent civil war over dispute of succession, and yet before me stood a king that was breaking that line. I didn’t know who was mean to take the throne after Malcolm, but I knew it wasn’t Duncan. There had to have been a distant cousin out there somewhere. Nevertheless, this copper-golden-haired Duncan stood before me, proclaimed by his grandfather to be the next king. Most girls would have been gushing, but I was a strong willed Norse-girl, and I was wary. I did, however, play the part well. I smiled, briefly met Duncan’s eyes, and then looked away.

“So, it is decided then?” Malcolm said to Cnut.

“It is decided: this marriage in exchange for intervention of the raids on your lands. I will do what I can.” Cnut would not look at me as he turned away from the Scots.

Malcolm strode out with the same air with which he had strode in. Duncan turned slowly, his eyes stuck on me until he turned beyond his radius of sight. The young man with the scar followed close behind him.

“When are you going to Scotland?” Siward asked me later. I was surprised he was even aware of what had occurred, but thankful that I wouldn’t have to explain all of the arrangement. He was looking at me quizzically, like he used to when Mother told him to get out of that damn tree.

“Was it Huginn watching over court today? No, I forget, they always travel together,” I said.

“When are you going to Scotland?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“Am I going to Scotland with you?”

“You’re not,” said Harold Cnutsson. “Father told me that you were staying here since you’re being fostered. You’ll serve my father when you’re old enough. Maybe you’ll be a soldier or a lord.”

Harold was two years younger than my brother, but grounded enough for both of them. He had his father’s bright blond hair and was skilled with a sword. He and Siward trained often in the yard, exchanging blows and thrusts, the clang of steel echoing through the air. I had watched them before, but I did not watch often. Most days I was sewing or reading or caring for a few of the housecarls’ children. There were many children and not enough caretakers, so we did what we could. Sometimes, when I was lucky, Siward and I would go riding. He’d lead the way and I would just follow behind, enjoying his company. Those days were few in number.

“Do you know when Suthen’s leaving for Scotland?” Siward asked Harold.

“The prince is going to come for her,” Harold shrugged.

“Wonderful,” I sighed, with no inkling of sincerity. I didn’t even know this Duncan, and he didn’t know me. What did he think of me? Did he think I was pretty? Could he tell I was more Viking than most? How would he treat me? Would he be kind or would he be cruel? My stomach turned at all these thoughts.

Siward and Harold had started picking at the table with their daggers. There had to have been something better that they could have been doing, but I guess it didn’t matter. The sound of the blades cutting into the wood was beginning to irritate me, so I left the room to find some peace and quiet and wonder about this Duncan. My thoughts quickly turned to Siward. I would be leaving him alone there in England. He would have to carve out a life for himself under King Cnut’s rule. I figured Cnut would treat him fairly as he agreed to foster him when we first arrived, but I was unsure of how accepting the others would be. Svein was Harold’s twin brother, but they were very different. Svein was quiet and observing, and there was a certain air about him, similar to that of Malcolm the Destroyer. He never said much, but he was always watching. Harold, on the other hand, always spoke his mind and was more childish. He had a lack of empathy and emotional control. The two also had a younger half-brother, Harthacnut, whom we often called Art for simplicity. Art was very much like his mother, but he was also similar to his brother Harold. Sometimes they got along well, other times not so much. Their personalities clashed and made for more than enough troublesome afternoons. Siward was often left to watch over Cnut’s sons, but something always came up. I had a feeling that Cnut’s sons would be a problem for Siward in the future.

Duncan came for me within a couple months of the engagement. Siward, Cnut, and his sons saw me off. They said their farewells and each son presented me with a gift from their father. Harold gave me a sea-blue dress stitched from wool, Art gave me a silver cuff with infinity knots and triquetras and the pattern of a bear engraved into the material, and Svein gave me a falcon. Her name was Estrid. She had beautiful blue feathers the color of trees when they fade into the horizon and sharp intelligent eyes. The gifts were packed away, Estrid was given to a carer for the journey north, and Siward came forward to say good-bye. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I held him close.

“I’m going to clear the dragons out of the forest someday. I’ll bring their scales to you myself,” he said. “They’d look pretty on a necklace.”

I had to smile at that. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” He unfastened a small scabbard from his belt and put it in my hand. “This is for you,” he said.

I unsheathed the dagger. There were runes inscribed upon the small blade. I read them to myself. “Father’s dagger?” I asked.

Siward nodded.

“And you’re giving this to me? I don’t understand. This is yours now, he gave it to you because you earned it.”

“But you might need it,” he said. “You don’t know how many dragons are in Scotland, and I can always get another one. Maybe I’ll get two!”

We laughed and then said good-bye. I never wanted to leave him for fear that I would never see him again, but I had no choice. I should have considered myself lucky for not having been married off when I was barely more than a girl, as many women were, but I harbored selfish thoughts. I never wanted to be tied down. I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t love him. Perhaps I would come to love him, but at the moment I resented him for taking me from my home and my brother and my friends. Duncan never once addressed me during that meeting. He came, and we left, and we exchanged no words. The road to Dunkeld was long and silent, and I only found myself yearning for home.


	2. Gillecomgan (1031)

My brother Malcolm was boisterous as usual. He loved his ale and drank a lot of it when he could. He and his men were shouting and laughing in the light of the evening’s fire while I sat off to the side with Ossian. Ossian was grim, unlike Malcolm, and stayed relatively level-headed most of the time, whether it came to merry-making or battle. I could always trust he would have his wits about him.

Malcolm raised his drinking horn into the air, ale sloshing over the brim. “Gille!” he called. “Did you hear about the prince’s son?”

His speech slurred together into one multi-syllabic jumble. It was a wonder he’d even managed a coherent thought in that state. Malcolm had been in the king’s company over a year ago when Duncan was engaged to Sibylla of England. He had seen the woman and witnessed the engagement. Malcolm and Duncan were surprisingly good friends, seeing as the prince’s grandfather despised us both. Our young cousin Macbeth was one of the king’s other grandsons, and it was likely the king saw us as an obstacle in Macbeth’s path. When our uncle Finlay died, it was likely that the mormaership of Moray would fall upon Macbeth. However, Macbeth was young, too young, and my brother was ambitious.

“I heard,” I said. “I heard they named him Malcolm, after the king, his great-grandfather.” There seemed to be more and more Malcolms everyday.

“I’d wager that the Destroyer himself named the boy after himself. Probably hoping that Duncan will name his son tanist to continue succession through their own bloody bloodline . . . Imagine that. Malcolm III, king of Scotland!” My brother snorted and his men laughed with him.

“That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“What’re you saying, Gille?” He was stumbling his way over to me, knocking into men and chairs, spilling drink everywhere.

“He’s going to be the death of you if you talk like that,” Ossian said.

“He won’t,” I assured him. I measured my words carefully. Malcolm’s temper was short when he was drunk. He got in a knife fight, one evening, and ended up with a broken nose and a gash across his cheek. He was lucky that the only thing he still endured over the years was a crooked nose and a scar. The other drunk didn’t make it out with as much.

“Duncan will name his son tanist when he’s of age. Malcolm III will be king of Scotland.”

Malcolm shook his head heavily. “It should be Bodhe . . . He’s next in line. Old Malcolm got there by treachery . . .”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said, addressing everyone in the room this time. “Bodhe mac Kenneth does not have the support of the people. He puts his faith in his daughter. He hopes that she will be queen someday.”

“Which is why . . . I’m going to marry her,” Malcolm said. He downed the last of his drink and tossed the horn on the floor. His men laughed. Their drunkenness had overcome their minds and they knew not that they should’ve taken my brother’s statement seriously. I knew my brother was not a fool; he was cunning even when drunk. He meant every word he said and he never forgot any of it. I prayed that for once he didn’t mean what he had said.

“Marry Bodhe’s daughter? You’re not serious. She’s too young––”

“Doesn’t matter. When she’s a woman, she will be mine.”

“What about your wife? What about your son? Malcolm, you already have a family, and they are here at Elgin”

Malcolm observed the ring on his finger. He had loved her for a short time, but from what I had heard they didn’t get along well any longer. “Wives can be set aside for more favorable engagements,” he said, getting to his feet. He faced his men. “The day is late and my brother wishes to speak of matters too trivial for the lot of you!” The statement was met with guffaws. “Go home, friends! Leave my hall!”

“If we still plan on making him mormaer, he must be put in line,” Ossian whispered to me. I only nodded in reply. I could barely imagine my brother as mormaer anymore.

Ossian and the other men cleared out of Elgin’s hall. I set my cup down on the great oak table. “Are you suggesting that you want to contest Duncan for the throne?”

“Not Duncan. Malcolm.”

“And you intend to do this by marrying the daughter of Bodhe?”

“We’re killing Finlay,” Malcolm said.

My blood went cold. “What?  _ Now?” _

I looked at my brother. His face was hard and grim. He had a course of action working itself out in his mind, and I feared him. “We’re killing Finlay so I can be mormaer. When I am mormaer, I will marry Bodhe’s daughter, father a son of the royal bloodline, and claim the throne as mine.”

“What about Macbeth?” Our cousin would surely be there with Finlay.

“Kill him, too.”

“The king would have us executed!” I shouted. “I’m sure we could get away with the murder of Finlay, but not of Macbeth! He is the king’s grandson, and you know this!”

“What would  _ you _ have us do then?” Malcolm shot back. “I have thought this out time and time again and there is no other way to be rid of competition! Macbeth must die!”

“Have him exiled!” I said.

“Old Malcolm would take him in as he did with the Viking brat.  _ There is no other way.” _

He was holding me by the collar of my tunic, his face close to mine. The smell of his breath was putrid. I tried to shift away but he would not let me go. I pressed my foot against Malcolm’s stomach and pushed him away. His fist did not release so I fell with him. He stood up quickly and drew his sword from its scabbard, pointing it at my face. His arm was shaking.

“Tomorrow . . . we organize our forces. Then we storm Inverness,” he huffed.

I reached around the blade and grabbed his arm to pull myself to my feet. He backed away and huffed again before sheathing his sword and storming through the doors. He was right, I admitted; if we didn’t kill Macbeth there was no way to be sure that we would hold Moray. The king would retake Moray and hold it until Macbeth was of age. No one would protest. But I didn’t believe I would be able to reconcile with myself if my young cousin’s blood was on my hands. I stared at the dying fire for hours until it was merely ashes and embers, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t be complicit, but I couldn’t stop my brother. I fell asleep in the hall and woke again before dawn. Malcolm had already gone out to gather men, leaving his wife Cynewyn and his son Nechtan at Elgin. Nechtan was still a babe, not old enough yet to walk, and Cynewyn spoke little Gaelic. Both Malcolm and Cynewyn spoke the language of the Norsemen to communicate. There wasn’t much she and I could say to each other. She came out into the hall, Nechtan in her arms.

“Where is Malcolm?” she said as best she could.

“I don’t know, but he will be back.”

She seemed to understand, for she dropped her head and then left the hall. I could hear Nechtan begin to cry.

Malcolm came back after dark two days later. He came into my room and roused me from my sleep. He had amassed enough men to take Inverness, and seeing as the mountain passes were snowed in for the season, the king would not be able to come to their aid. We were leaving on the morrow.

Finlay had the parapets manned and the gate blocked. We raised our shields against the barrage of arrows. Malcolm commanded the archers to fire back. Another barrage rained upon us. It was cold, and we could see our breath cloud before our faces, swirling in the wind. My blood was not warm yet. We rammed up against the gates. The steel hinges creaked from the force of the blow. We did this again and again, all while arrows were being shot at us. Finally, the gate gave way. Malcolm sprinted across the bailey, and his sword connected with the first man he saw. Ossian and I followed my brother, the rest of our men pouring in through the gates, a flood of wood and steel. A few men rushed up the parapets to slay the archers while the rest of us entered the keep of the fortress. The clanging of blades and thudding of footsteps echoed through the halls. Just as we were passing a connecting corridor, a group of Finlay’s men intercepted us. One man threw his body into mine. I crashed into the wall, air forced from my lungs. My sword clattered to the ground beside me. I struggled for my dagger. Once I managed to take hold of it, I thrust the blade into the man on top of me, piercing him between the ribs. He gasped and sputtered. I regained my sword and shoved the man aside. Blood gushed from the wound I had inflicted upon him. Ossian knocked down his opponent and turned to grab me by my shoulder and pull me to my feet. He put his palm against my chest to check if I was alright, and I nodded in reply. He gave me a pat and we kept moving.

I could see Malcolm ahead of us. He was engaged with two men at once and holding his own well. He slashed one across the stomach, smashed the other in the jaw with his elbow, and then whirled around. Swords clashed. He shoved the man into the wall. The other one advanced from behind, but Malcolm drove his blade into his abdomen. When he drew away, the man crumpled to a heap on the stone floor. A cold place to die. Malcolm beheaded the other. He stared at the severed head while taking a minute to catch his breath. His eyes darted up at the sound of my footsteps, and he spotted me coming down the hallway. He started towards me, pointing his sword down the left hall.

“Finlay’s down there. There’s maybe five men with him,” Malcolm said.

“And Macbeth?” I asked.

Malcolm growled and rolled his head back. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to argue about this.”

“You will do what must be done, Gillecomgan,” Ossian said.

“So he’s in there.”

“Yes.” Malcolm swept his damp hair out of his eyes.

Ossian collapsed behind us. I went to support him as quick as I could, letting him lean against me for stability. He was breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Malcolm asked. “Ossian?”

“You go on without me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Blood was spreading down his tunic beneath the boiled leather. I didn’t know whether or not to trust his word, but the look in his eyes bade me to go with Malcolm. I positioned him against the wall before following Malcolm.

Finlay was waiting for us in his hall. Some of our men already laid dead upon the floor, bodies sprawled out in various arrays, blood letting in-between the blocks of stone. Finlay’s blade was drawn, already dripping with red, and his son stood behind him. Macbeth adjusted his grip on his sword, knuckles pale white. Three of Finlay’s men laid dead with ours. Three more stood near him. Malcolm swayed where he stood, taking in the same details I was. He glanced at me briefly, and we both darted forward. Finlay’s three men launched towards us, swords raised. I swiftly slid my blade below one’s downward arc. The steel bit into flesh and beyond. Blood splattered everywhere. I drew upwards and stepped aside to let the body fall. Malcolm punched one man square in the jaw, knocking out a couple of teeth. He punched him a second time and then kicked him while he was on the floor. I engaged with the last of Finlay’s men. He was quicker than I had anticipated and dodged my first swing. I circled back around, but not fast enough. His blade drew across my arm, cutting the fabric of my shirt. I withdrew. Malcolm ran sideways into the last man, forcing both of them to the ground. I leapt forward, dagger in hand, and stabbed my attacker in the eye. He screamed. Malcolm covered his mouth to muffle the agonizing sound and pressed him hard against the floor. I stabbed him again, in the neck that time, and then again and again, until he stopped writhing and kicking. His blood dripped from my face. My head flicked up. Macbeth made to advance towards us, but Finlay held out his arm in front of the boy. Malcolm got to his feet and wiped off his face.

“Don’t make this hard for yourself, old man,” he said. “We’ve already taken Inverness. Yield, and your life shall be spared.”

He was lying through his teeth, giving them a false promise. Malcolm would never allow Finlay to live, but I also knew that Finlay would never yield to a foe. The two stubborn asses had finally met their match. We waited for Finlay to answer. It surprised me how long it took him to give us his answer, for I, of course, assumed the decision would be simple. Apparently, I was wrong.

Finlay’s sword clattered to the ground.

“I yield,” he said, “for the sake of my son.”

Macbeth shook his head. “Father, no, what are you doing?”

_ “No!”  _ Malcolm shrieked. “No, you can’t! You must die! If you or Macbeth live, you will seek our demise! I will not allow you to live!”

Finlay looked to me. “Do you also believe this, Gillecomgan?”

I set my jaw and said nothing. Finlay sighed and turned back to Malcolm. “Kill me, then, if that is what you so please,” he said.

I could hear Malcolm’s breaths and saw how fast his chest would rise and fall. His fists were clenched so hard that his arms trembled. He ran towards Finlay, sword aimed at his chest. Macbeth cried out in despair. The blow hit right where it had been intended, and Finlay drove his arm up. Malcolm’s breath hitched. He released the hilt of the sword and toppled to the floor. Finlay dropped to his knees, clutching the blade of the sword. A dagger covered in blood had fallen between them. I shouted my brother’s name and dashed towards him.

“Go, boy!” Finlay rasped. “Go! Now!”

Macbeth took two hesitant steps backward before breaking into a sprint and tearing his way from the hall. I dropped to Malcolm’s side. He was clawing at his neck, the underside of his jaw, from where the blood would not stop coming. He gurgled and choked on it all. The blood made everything so slick. His eyes found mine. I could see the terror in them, the regret. He reached towards me. I took his arm. Finlay coughed behind me. I turned and saw him draw the blade out of his body with the last of his strength and proceed to ease onto the floor. His blood pooled around him, and his eyes glazed over. Malcolm squeezed my arm, his nails digging into the fabric of my shirt and into my skin. The struggle continued until his hold on me eased. I grabbed his hand as it began to fall. His body went limp, and his head lolled to the side, blood spilling out of his mouth. I had no words. I would have begged him to come back if I could have, but with a wound such as that, recovery was not possible. I delicately reached over to close his eyes, not yet having released his hand. I sat there for awhile with my dead uncle and my dead brother, until Ossian came for me. He helped me to my feet and lead me away from that hall and out of Inverness.

The grief hit me when I returned to Elgin. Cynewyn asked about Malcolm, just as she had before we had gone to Inverness. She had Nechtan in her arms, just as before. I told her what had happened. I told her Malcolm had been slain. She sat down right there in the middle of the hall and held Nechtan close to her chest as she sobbed. Watching her triggered the realization in me. Malcolm was not coming home again. He would never be back. She was alone. I was alone. I backed into the great oak table and dropped into a chair. I contracted in on myself. I shut down. I wept.

Macbeth had escaped to his grandfather, just as Malcolm knew he would. Macbeth accused me and my brother of murdering his father, which I did not deny, and the king summoned me to a trial on the hilltop. Everything Macbeth accused me of was correct. I denied none of it. I told them why I had done it; I wanted to be mormaer. I told them that Finlay killed my brother. Macbeth did not deny it. The only thing I argued for was the act of Finlay yielding. Macbeth argued that the slaying of his father was unjust and should be treated as a murder. I said that Finlay had yielded only to gain what little advantage over the situation he could, and even though he laid down his sword, he did draw a dagger on my brother.

“Liar!” Macbeth screamed. “You murdered him! You have no right to declare why my father yielded!”

“I did not draw my sword on your father.”

“You were complicit!”

“Enough!” King Malcolm bellowed. We were testing his patience. “You wish to be mormaer?” he asked me.

I nodded. For my brother, I would not let Macbeth become mormaer.

“Than you shall be mormaer, but you will pay a mormaer’s price to both me and Macbeth for the death of Finlay.”

Macbeth’s furious stare followed me as we departed from the hilltop. I would have to be wary of him in the future, I knew. Likely, the people of Moray would sympathize with him, and gaining their support after what I had done would be difficult, but I was willing to work for it. I returned to Elgin, paid the king the price he had requested of me, and sat down at the great oak table, now the mormaer of Moray as my brother had dreamed for himself. It was not what I had expected from taking Inverness, but I would defend it with everything I had. Ossian sat down across from me at the table. He poured me a cup of ale and then one for himself. I downed the drink quickly. He sipped his and then broke the silence with something we had not dared to think of since Malcolm had first brought it up.

“Now we must make you the king,” he said.


	3. Siward (1031)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a chaotic crow man.  
Happy birthday, Tam! Enjoy!

A storm was raging outside, thunder and lightning and winds that forced the trees to bend in submission; a storm of epic proportions, the like of which England hadn’t seen before. The rains beat upon the ground without mercy, animals cowered in their holes, and the All-father summoned me. The windows of my room flew open and in soared two black ravens, feathers gleaming even in the dark. With each flash of lightning, they croaked and clicked. Rain water doused my face with a gust of wind, and I sat up, throwing my covers to the side. The ravens circled above me before coming to perch one on my bedpost and the other on the window sill. Seven times they croaked to each other. Seven times I muttered a prayer to Odin.

“Siward, descendent of the Isbjorn and the Aesir,” one said.

“Siward, son of Bjorn,” one said.

“Yes,” I answered. “Yes.”

The raven on the bedpost tilted its head to the side and blinked and looked. I looked back at it, staring into those endless eye pools. They sucked me in, pulled my soul from my body and turned it over for examination. They saw my whole life, my dreams, and my thoughts, everything I was flashed before them in the briefest moment. They returned my soul to the earth and to my body, but I was not the same. They had changed me, made me expand and grow, shaped me to their use. I was theirs to command, and I was grateful for their presence. I looked at them with the same endless eyes. The raven cawed.

“See,” one said. “See.”

“I see,” I answered.

“Come,” one said. “Come.”

“I will come,” I answered.

The door opened, and the ravens flew below the arch, and I followed their path. Harold came into the hall as the ravens and I passed his room. He looked around in bewilderment, his sight hindered from his sleep. He asked if I was Siward. I said I was. He asked what I was doing up in the dead of night, so I told him of the ravens. Harold searched above but could not see them. I assured him they were there, perhaps just not meant for him. He asked where I was going. I said I did not know. Harold withdrew into his room and then emerged again dressed for the journey in the dark. He insisted upon joining me, but I refused his company. Lightning flashed and the wind blew harder against the windows. A valknut was embroidered upon Harold’s vest, and when it became illuminated by the lightning, I knew I would have the blessing of both Odin and Thor if I brought him with me. So the ravens lead me and Harold out of the castle and into the grove beyond the outer walls where we would meet with the All-father. The trees of the grove grew thick and close together as we trekked farther in. Roots tripped our feet and mist obscured our vision, but we pushed on, my raven’s sight aiding us well. After a while, we lost the ravens. I could hear them croaking and calling from far beyond, the sounds merely echoes of their voices. I called out to them, but their voices were lost on the wind, as was mine. Harold had given up. The valknut faded. He told me to go back, but I would not. I told him that if he wished to go back, he could, but I would not give up. The All-father was near, I knew it. Harold stayed with me.

The ravens returned then and lead us into the glade where he stood before us, dressed in a wanderer's garb and holding an old man’s walking stick. The ravens landed on either shoulder, chattering away.

“All-father,” I breathed, dropping to my knees, “what do you ask of me?”

_ I ask nothing of you,  _ the All-father spoke.  _ I offer wisdom. _

_ _ “I will listen.”

His one eye was an empty socket, a sacrifice for his knowledge, and the other saw all; the secrets of the stars, the earth, and the sea. Huginn and Muninn soared in sight. They called my name,  _ Siward. Siward. _

_ _ _ Find yourself a raven-banner, sewn for a Viking lord. A charm will protect you from the threats you are soon to face. Beware the drakes of Orkney and Northumberland, for they have yet to be vanquished. Cherish the beauty of the elves; and fear not death. You shall have a son and he shall die and he shall live. You need not despair. _

_ _ Thor beat his hammer on the anvil, sending streaks of light barreling through the sky. The flashes blinded me, yet I saw Odin’s silhouette transform into a cloud of ravens and disperse into the sky. Their feathers and calls were everywhere, in my eyes and my ears and my mouth. I covered my head and tried to back away, but the roots of the trees reached out to stop me. I was falling through time and space, the whole of the universe rushing past me. The ravens were so loud.

Harold caught me in his arms. “Siward! Siward, what the hell? Are you alright?”

We were back at the edge of the grove. I slithered out of Harold’s hold. “I just saw Odin! Odin  _ spoke  _ to me! Did you see him Harold?  _ Did you see him?” _

_ _ “What are you talking about? You walked into a fucking tree branch and blacked out. I had to drag you out of there.”

“Where do I get a raven-banner?” I was already walking back to the castle, thinking about what I was going to take with me. As soon as Harold gave me a place to go, I would be off.

“A raven-banner?” Harold asked.

“Yes. Catch up, Harold. It’s not that hard.”

He skipped up the hill. “Okay, okay, well, there’s Sigurd of Orkney. His mother sewed a raven-banner for him––”

“Then I’ll see you when I return from Orkney!” I said and kissed Harold on both cheeks. Harold stopped in his tracks as I ran the rest of the way.

_ “What the hell, Siward!” _

I threw on a lined tunic over my shirt, fastened my sword belt around my waist, and grabbed my two daggers off the table, tucking one down my boot and clipping the other to my belt. Svein and Art watched me leap from the balcony of my room. They shouted after me.

“Caw caw, bitches!” I screamed.

I landed hard in the bailey, face in the dirt. I might’ve sprained my ankle as well, but that didn’t matter so much. My journey was off to a great start. I had built a galley that could be manned by a single sailor and tethered it down by the bay, so that was where I headed. I skimmed down the hill and rammed right into the tree that my galley was tethered to. I bounced off of the trunk and rolled into the frigid vernal waters. It was cold, yes, but reinvigorating. I could still hear the Cnutssons yelling for me, but they would not get me to go back, not until I had Sigurd’s raven-banner between my teeth. I severed the rope that held the galley in place, pushed it into the water, and leapt on board. I laughed and whooped. Huginn and Muninn circled above me, and I knew that I was doing the thing I was meant to do. The gods were on my side.

I came upon the shores of Orkney wind-swept and craving something other than fish. I dragged myself out of the galley and staggered all the way to the farm that was across the field. I collapsed in the middle of the field and dug my hands into the dirt, searching for something to eat, but it was early in the season, so nothing of substantial substance was to be found. I pulled up a few seeds that had barely any green sprouting from them. I popped those into my mouth along with a handful of soil. Plants ate dirt, right? Maybe I could eat dirt, too. After I had swallowed the sludge, I decided that I would never eat dirt again. Unless someone dared me to. I slammed open the door of the farmhouse, startling the woman inside.

“Do you have any bird?” I said.

She didn’t have any bird, but she gave me beef and bread and a cup of ale. At first she had offered me some of the fish that her husband had caught and then smoked, but I refused. I’m sure it was good, but I needed to get the taste of fish off of my tongue first. She asked me where I had come from and why I had come. When I told her I was from England and that Odin had sent me, she only said, “You’re mad!”

People said that about me a lot, the Cnutssons most often because I saw them nearly everyday. Like Harold, no one else had seen Odin or his ravens, so they assumed I had not seen them either. They were wrong, however; I had seen Odin and he had spoken to me. I asked the woman how I could get to Sigurd’s hall, and she pointed me north-west. I promptly went on my way, following the direction she had given me.

The palisade surrounding Birsay was nothing I couldn’t handle. I scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side. It had taken me a whole day to reach the town, so it was dark by that time. Sigurd’s hall stood before me, warm light emanating through the cracks between the wood and the tapestries. I decided to walk right in. The Orkneyans were gathered around a long table sharing a grand feast and guzzling mead. A cup was thrust into my hands by one of the serving-girls. I decided, why not? and downed the whole cup in one go. I tossed it behind me.

“Do you have any bird?” I shouted.

“Do we have any bird, lads?” one replied. They all laughed and threw fistfulls of meat at me.

“Thanks!” I said, shoving what meat I could catch into my mouth. The dogs padded over to me, eating the meat that I had missed. I crouched down to pet their soft fur and scratch them behind the ears. They were pleasant beasts.

Across the hall from the place I stood was where the lord was meant to sit, and above the seat hung Sigurd’s raven-banner. My jaw dropped. Huginn and Muninn were perched in the rafters, eyeing me curiously. I pet the dogs one last time, then cawed and hopped up onto the end of the table. The Orkneyans hollered and cheered. I sprinted down the length of the great table, treading over meats and greens and breads, until I reached the end and leapt off of the ledge. The whole table shifted backwards, knocking down some of the men with their drinks and food. They hooted with laughter as they fell to the floor, the dogs bounding over to lick the feast from their beards and faces. I grabbed hold of the banner and tore it from where it was suspended. We crashed down onto the lord’s chair, breaking the seat, and it toppled down the stage with us. I scrambled to my feet, a wide grin stretching across my face. At last, the lord of the hall made himself known. His hair was just as black as the ravens’. He drew his sword.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Oh, you’re Raven-man, right? Hraf . . . nathur. Rafnafr? Faffaffinur . . .”

He pressed the bridge of his nose. “Rognvald.”

“Right! Rognvald!” I quietly began to inch my way towards the entrance. “Raven-ward, got it.”

“I hope you know that I can tell you’re trying to get away.”

“Yes, I know.” I ran up to the table and tipped it onto its side, scattering trenchers, food, and cups of mead all over the floor. Rognvald moved out of the way while I grabbed a hunk of the bird and raced out of the hall. They weren’t going to be able to catch me on foot, and I think they knew that because they sent the dogs out. They definitely weren’t pleasant beasts any longer. I ran like I was on hot coals, each foot barely touching the ground before it flew up again. I reached the palisade, tossed my bird over, and lifted myself up, the banner between my teeth. The dogs ran up to the wall, barking and snapping at my feet. A volley of arrows hailed upon the palisade, one lodging itself in the wood just left of my head. I turned back to see Rognvald and a group of his men aiming arrows at me. They loosed another volley by Rognvald’s command. I ducked my head. They thudded all around me.

“Ha! You missed!” I shouted through the banner.

“No, I didn’t.” Rognvald tapped the back of his leg with the flat side of his blade.

I looked down at mine to find that an arrow had pierced my calf.

_ “Fuck!” _

Rognvald and his men advanced. I kicked my injured leg against the wall to get the adrenaline circulating and pulled myself over. Crows were pecking at my bird. I shooed them away and picked up what was left. I threw it up at them.

“You want this, huh? You want this?”

The crows flew off. I limped up the hill into the forest where the thick brush would hide me. I slipped into a ditch, shaking from the rush. Pulling the shaft from my leg hurt a lot more than I had anticipated. I brought my tunic up over my head and ripped off a long strip of fabric to tie around my leg. I could hear the dogs barking from the town, coming for me, so I went farther in. The forest was dark and damp. I wished again for my raven’s sight, but my wish was not fulfilled. I went instead to the raven-banner for guidance. I held the silk to my face, breathing in the smell of the hearth fire, the mead, and the damp air. Suthen would have tried to stop me, I’m sure, just as the Cnutssons had, but Odin had given me my quest, and I would see it through. The raven-banner and whatever charm that had been laid upon it was mine.

A shadow shifted in my sight. I thought Huginn and Muninn had answered my call, but the shadow was low to the ground and massive. The air around it burned. Its scales glittered when the light had the rare chance to hit it. The beast uncoiled itself, raising its head thirty feet into the air. Magnificent, it was, with frills and feathers and horns adorning its crown. It growled low and deep in its throat, the frills waving with the vibration. I grabbed the hilt of my sword and drew, but the blade froze in the scabbard. I tried again, but it would not give. The beast snarled at me, revealing fangs the size of an auroch’s horn. I unfastened my sword from my belt and drew the dagger instead. The beast lurched forward with a deafening roar. I side stepped and threw myself onto the lower branches of a nearby tree. I balanced on the branches and leapt at the beast when it came towards me a second time. It twisted left and right, trying to throw me from its neck, but I prevailed. The beast would not best me. I shoved the dagger through the scales and into its hide. It reared back its head and shrieked so loud that everything shook, including my vision. I did not release the dagger. The fangs snapped at me, and we fell deeper into the forest, tumbling until we plummeted into a stream. I struck a boulder, the dagger dislodging itself from the beast’s hide and flying from my grip. I was soaked to the bone clinging desperately to the raven-banner with my frozen hand. I crawled onto the shore and tied the banner around my neck before hurling a handful of stones into the water where the beast lay waiting. I produced my last resort from my boot and dove back into the water. The river exploded as the beast rose up. I stuck the dagger into its neck and withdrew. It thrashed around, sending water into the air. I stayed below the surface and then came up again to stab it in the spine. The frill shot up, knocking me aside. It's great mouth of fangs opened before me. I swam towards it and stepped upon its snout at the last possible second. I drove the dagger into its skull. The beast crashed into the water, burying its nose beneath the riverbed. I stabbed it again for good measure. Then I let go.

“Take that . . . you fucking dragon . . .”

I stayed on the shore for a while, an exhausted wreck of adrenaline, until I was able to sit back up and retie the crude bandage around my calf. Rognvald’s dogs wouldn’t be able to catch my scent any more, so I was no longer in a hurry. But I needed to get back to England. The Cnutssons were waiting for me. When I had finally regained enough energy to stand up and not immediately sink back into the pebbles, I clambered up the ravine and started back towards the farm.

The woman at the farmhouse had kept my galley for me until I returned, but she wouldn’t let me leave unless I allowed them to properly address my wounds. I assured her that I would be fine, but she didn’t believe me. She also didn’t believe that I had defeated the drake of Orkney, but you can’t have everything. Her husband helped by cauterizing the wound left by the arrow. I had to promise them that I would not reopen the wound until I was back in England where I could get help. So I promised, and then they let me go on my way.

I entered King Cnut’s hall. He glanced at me and then sat up in his seat while his sons burst into the room. They had seen me as I approached the castle. I held up the raven-banner before them.

“I got Sigurd’s raven-banner from Orkney.”

Cnut looked at Harold, and then back at me. “You’re insane!”

“Am I?” I said.

Cnut was speechless. I tucked the raven-banner back into my belt and went up to my room. Harold followed me. He was wearing the vest with the valknut again. I took that as a good omen.

“You actually went to Orkney?” he asked.

“Yes, right into Birsay. Did you know that Raven-ward is lord there, now?”

“What happened to you? What happened to your leg? Are you okay?”

“A lot of things, I suppose. I got shot with an arrow, and I fought a dragon . . .”

_ “A dragon?”  _ Harold choked.

“Why is everyone so incredulous? Here, I’ll show you the scales.” I produced a small drawstring pouch from my belt and emptied its contents into my palm. Each scale was the size of a coin and dark iridescent green in color. I held one up for Harold to see. “What do you think?”

“That’s . . . That’s . . .” He held out his hand. “May I?”

I placed the scale in his outstretched palm. “You can keep it, if you’d like. I have more than enough.”

“Impossible,” he whispered.

He stayed there staring at my prize while I set work on making Suthen’s necklace. I draped the raven-banner over my bedpost and tossed my sword on the carpet. As I threaded the cord through the holes I had poked in the scales, I thought that perhaps Suthen would have to wait a while longer for her necklace, just long enough for me to defeat the drake of Northumberland and add a little variety of color to the gift.


	4. Banquo (1035)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I be existing again. Enjoy Chapter 4!

My father was carried home on a stretcher, half-conscious but fighting for life. He had been injured in battle days ago by Vikings raiding the land of our kinsmen in Fife, and it had only been just decided that he would return home to me and Mother. After being bed-ridden for nearly a week, we knew the time had finally come. Men of our household carried him to the bedroom followed by our Celtic priest and physic and my mother. I did not follow.

One moment, I was home with my family, my company, and all things familiar, and the next I found myself on the other side of the kingdom, surrounded by kinsmen I’d never met and an ungodly amount of handsome young soldiers. They had sent me to take my father’s place in defending Fife from the Vikings, and to be very honest, I had no idea what to expect. I had only been to battle a few times before, and it was usually by my father’s side, but I was a man now, he would tell me. Those were the things I ought to have been doing.

The first day at the camp was disorienting, getting introduced to all my kinsmen and passed down along the rows of tents to where I was meant to wait . . . where my father had been only days before. Everything there was meant to remind me who I was, who I was meant to be, but none of it was truly me. I didn’t know what was, at the time, but it grew closer by the hour.

My father had sent for me the day before I’d left.

_ Wipe out the line of Malcolm Forranach,  _ he’d said,  _ as he has done to us. _

Forranach, they called him, for he destroyed his enemies and all who opposed him. He had long been vanquishing foes in battle, but his violence against my father’s family began with Kenneth III, slain in Strathearn with his son. Malcolm quickly took the throne after that and denied those next in line of their right. I never fully understood what that meant for me, but my father always harbored a great hatred towards the king.

_ You will be the king one day, if all goes right,  _ he’d said.  _ Your children shall be kings. _

We went off at sunrise to meet the Vikings at Kirkaldy where they had fortified themselves. At the edge of the village, they waited for us, a woman at the front. She was called Bodhild White-axe, daughter of Lord Haakon of the Isles and a great warrior. It came as a great surprise for most, I figured, to see a woman at the head of a raiding party, but it was not uncommon amongst the Vikings. This I knew through my father, though he never approved of it.

King Malcolm himself had come to negotiate with this warrior, for she and her party had been endlessly raiding the coast of Fife. Finally, it seemed, they had got the attention they sought. Malcolm’s housecarls followed him down from their horses, along with two young men about my age, one with hair as dark as a raven’s and the other wearing the colors of Moray. Curious, I thought, as the Lord of Moray was certainly not as young as this man. He caught my eye for a second, this man of Moray, as he leapt down from his white mare.

The raven-haired one was named Thorfinn, and he was one of White-axe’s demands.

“We are sent here by the men of Orkney. After the death of Jarl Rognvald Sigurdsson, they demand that the boy be returned,” she said.

Thorfinn looked to the king, face etched with what I could only take to be fear. There was something more to this demand than would be revealed in the moment, but the king refused.

“Orkney will not have the boy,” Malcolm said. The voice sent the blood from my face. The inflections reminded me so much of my father. “He is a Scot. He does not belong in the north with savage raiders and rapers.”

White-axe laughed. “Of course, of course, but I feel that all deserve a woman to lie with after a battle, no? What does it say of your men if I told you your women preferred us to them?” Her party erupted in ferocious laughter, and I realized she meant a woman for herself as well. Hearing that was . . . liberating.

“Malcolm, as you can see, we are here to stay until you agree to our terms,” White-axe continued. “Perhaps a night to think on it would do you well.” She began to pace before our host of Scots, eying each one of the men in front––Thorfinn, the housecarls, the lord of Fife, the man of Moray . . . “Why don’t we exchange hostages, to ensure cooperation over night.”

Malcolm thought this over, eyes never leaving White-axe’s smug face. She empowered herself through silence, using every second he gave her to devise an emboldening strategy. I could see the cunning shining in her eyes.

“The thane of Lochaber is yours,” Malcolm said.

My father was the thane. But my father was back home. All looked to me, dressed in Lochaber’s colors, bearing Lochaber’s sigil, mounted upon my father’s horse. The king meant me.

“Lord, my father––the thane of Lochaber is home,” I said.

“Get down from your horse, boy.”

I made no further argument nor inquiries, as I had learned. I dismounted and went to the front with the lords and housecarls where the man of Moray came forward to take my sword. I handed it off to him, as well as my dagger.

“You’ll get them back, don’t worry,” he said. There was something so reassuring in his voice that I couldn’t help but feel a fluttering sensation.

White-axe handed Ragnhild Olafsdottir over into Malcolm’s custody. She was the princess of Viking controlled Dyflin, the granddaughter of the king. With such an esteemed hostage, White-axe had to have been sure that Malcolm would not break the terms of their agreement, or else he would risk war with the king of Dyflin. As for why he chose to send me, I guessed it was because he hoped the Vikings would not honor their terms.

The man of Moray bowed his head as Malcolm moved him aside and thrust a letter into my hands. “You are Lochaber now,” he said. “Act as a thane would.”

Off with the Vikings, I was sent, while the princess Ragnhild rode my father’s horse back to the Scot’s camp surrounded by my father’s men.

A whole day in a Viking-controlled town was not something I looked forward to, but it was not at all what I had expected. White-axe welcomed me into the hall, and as if I was merely a guest, she invited me to sit at her table as she drank and ate. I was given ale and something to eat before being dismissed to where I would stay until next dawn. As I was being led away from the hall, I saw White-axe take a woman by the waist and draw her near for a kiss. Both women wore rings on their fingers, rings that seemed to match one another. A scene like that would have been unheard of back in Lochaber, but it was one I would never forget.

The letter Malcolm had given to me crumpled from within my cloak as I dropped onto what they had provided me for a bed, reminding me that it was there. I drew the stale parchment from where it had waited patiently and turned it over in my hand. The seal had already been broken, the message already read. Putting the matter from my mind, I quickly opened the letter to read its contents. The hand-writing I recognized. Maud had written it, my close friend and betrothed—neither of us had any choice in the matter. My parents had chosen her for me, and though marriage was not at all what I wanted, Maud and I had made the best of the situation. She had been there for me before I had left Lochaber, when I fled to my mother’s garden as they brought my father into the house. She cared for me, and I often wished I could have cared for her in the same way.

The letter had been written by Maud, and at first I did not believe it except for the fact that I was certain it was her hand-writing and that she would never lie to me, not about something such as this. I reread the message again and again, and I feared I might cry, but of course he would never have let me cry, especially not as I was in the midst of our enemies, a hostage on behalf of the king, the king which he had so despised. I folded the letter back the way it had been given to me and tucked it away. Heart racing and breathless, the time seemed to pass even more slowly than before. I was anxious for this to be over. I was anxious to go home.

After sunset and a long time past supper, there was a disturbance on the other side of the door. Fortunately, sleep had not come easily to me that night. I sat up from the bed immediately and went to the door, peeking through the slots between the planks of wood. Two Vikings had been stationed outside my room to act as guards for the one night, and both were stiffly alert. Just as one began to raise his voice, both were silenced by the slash of a blade. I backed away from the door, listening quietly as a stranger moved aside the bodies of the two Vikings. I searched the room for something to defend myself with, fearing that this stranger had come for my life, but when the door opened, both relief and dread washed over me.

It was the man of Moray.

“I hope you have everything,” he said, swinging his sword over his shoulder and holding out his other hand. I noticed that he wore a silver ring on one of his fingers, encrusted with a deep blue jewel. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I grabbed my cloak and followed him through the halls and out into the dark of night. Kirkaldy was alive with the flicker of flames and Viking tempers as they realized I had gone. The man of Moray led me down to the bank of the firth where a boat waited for us. The flames of the town began to follow us as we pushed the boat into the water and clambered in. I could see White-axe watching us as her men argued with each other and fired a few arrows in our direction. She almost looked amused.

We rowed until we were far enough away that the voices were no more and the flames faded into the night. When we were sure that we had not been followed by horseback, the man of Moray turned the boat back toward shore, and we began the trek back to the camp.

“Thank you for coming for me,” I said, after he had returned my sword and my dagger, “though I didn’t know I was in need of a rescue. I take it negotiations fell through?”

The man of Moray nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, well, the princess wasn’t exactly the most compliant hostage, and my grandfather continues to adamantly refuse paying any sort of tribute to the Lord of the Isles . . .”

“Your grandfather?” I asked.

He grew silent, for a moment, eyes darting towards the earth. “The king, I mean,” he said.

When I finally began to put the pieces together, it all made sense. “You’re Macbeth, the son of Finlay?”

“Yes,” he said. The sun was beginning to rise above the line of trees, turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink.

“I was sorry to hear of your father.” I felt this was the right thing to say. Though I had heard of his father’s death, as many across the kingdom had, I was still young at the time and greatly influenced by everything my father would tell me. My father had despised Finlay, but so far I had found no reason to despise the son.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “I don’t belong to him anymore. I belong to the king.”

What he meant by that, I wasn’t sure, but soon we reached the camp that was home to the familiar banners of the great lands of Scotland. My men were relieved to see me. I went down to the river to wash as soon as all were reassured that I had made it back alive. After a night spent with the Vikings and a morning trekking on foot, washing off in the cold waters came to much satisfaction. I let down my hair and submerged myself in the water, making sure to rinse all of it out. As I turned to step out of the waters, I noticed Macbeth watching me from atop the hill. He looked away as soon as I glanced in his direction. I dressed myself quickly after I left the waters, fumbling with the strings as I laced everything together. Just as I had begun to twist my hair back, I turned in time to see Macbeth start to his feet as the king strode up to him. From the bank of the river, I could not hear what they were saying, but the king grabbed Macbeth by the back of his collar and walked him towards the woods nearby. They disappeared into the trees, and I decided to follow.

At the edge of the woods, I could hear their hushed voices, but they had gone deeper in than I had thought. I slipped quietly through branches and around tree trunks until I could make out their words.

“What if you had died?” I heard Malcolm demand in his vicious tone. “If you plan to one day take back Moray, you have to stop behaving so recklessly.”

“Moray is mine,” Macbeth started, “and I will have it someday, but until then I have to prove that I deserve it, that I am the right man to serve and protect my people!”

I cautiously peeked through the brush, keeping my breath as steady as I possibly could. Sunlight gleamed off that jewel Macbeth wore on his finger. Though in his voice he had sounded sure, his pallor betrayed him. Fear danced in his eyes.

Malcolm’s hair shone like fire. “That boy is a threat to us, Macbeth.”

“Only if you make him one!” Macbeth was breathing furiously. “You don’t actually care about your people . . .”

“Macbeth––”

“You only care about what benefits yourself, and what kind of king does that make you––?!”

I turned away as soon as I saw it coming. Malcolm had raised his hand, and the blow came swiftly, sending a shock through the air. I felt panic tighten my chest as my father haunted the back of my mind. Macbeth did not complete his thought.

“I am doing what is best for all of us,” Malcolm said, “and quite often, that involves the bastard reality that the world is built on the bodies of those that get in our way. So stop crying like a baby girl and get to your feet . . . We’ll be going back to Scone as soon as we rid ourselves of these Vikings.”

I pressed myself back against the nearest tree, keeping close enough so that Malcolm wouldn’t see me as he passed out of the woods. Macbeth delicately pushed himself up from the ground and winced as he touched his cheek which was blossoming red.

“You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” I said, as soon as I was sure Malcolm was beyond ear shot.

Macbeth quickly drew his hand back to his side. “It’s nothing. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“I know better than most,” I continued.

Macbeth and I walked from the woods in silence. We would be meeting the Vikings in battle shortly, it seemed, and it was doubtful we’d see each other afterward.

“I hate to be saying this now, but what is your name?” Macbeth asked.

_ Your father is dead,  _ Maud had written.  _ You are the thane of Lochaber. _

“My name is Banquo,” I said, “and if you ever want to meet again, just send for the thane of Lochaber.”

Macbeth smiled at that, and I finally realized what it meant for me to be without my father. Without my father, I was free to love who I wanted. And who I wanted was Macbeth.


	5. Suthen (1036)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ASKHDJSHSKDJH SORRY I'M INCONSISTENT WITH UPDATES AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

In the House of Dunkeld, I used to fear my foods were poisoned, but now I sat patiently rather than anxiously as the blonde-haired servant girl brought our midday meal before us. My little Malcolm, now five and a half years of age, gulped down his milk eagerly. Ever since the day he was born he had been smaller than most boys, but given time, I was sure he would grow. Duncan was not pleased by him, as one could easily tell if not for his stature then for his love of flowers and his mother’s embroidery. It was all Duncan would allow me while I carried our third child within me. Our second had been lost, and he was determined not to lose another.

He sat solemnly, letting his crust of bread soak up as much of the stew’s broth as it would. Those glaring eyes of his seemed vacant, lost, as if his mind was preoccupied or not there at all. Malcolm blabbered on about some childish nonsense that I was all too fond of. His voice was the sweetest sound in all the kingdom. Lacking an appetite, I eyed my own stew and bread.

Three strange gems rested cool upon my breast––the dragon-scale necklace my brother had sent me from England. He claimed to have battled dragons, one in the Viking controlled isles of Orkney and another in Bernicia, far north near the river Tweed. They were strange gems for certain, or perhaps they were shells, but no matter the case, Siward claimed they were dragon scales from the beasts he slew himself. No one would believe him, he had written. I honestly wish that I could. But he had come so far since the day we parted, and despite his delusions of dragon slaying, I was proud of him.

Malcolm looked to me with Siward’s eyes and grinned, one tooth missing. I brought myself to smile.

“Did you know my brother’s an English earl?” I asked my son.

Duncan looked up from his food. “You have a brother?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait, the delusional pagan lad . . . Sometimes I manage to forget that you’re not actually Saxon. It’s a true feat,” he murmured.

I was astonished when Duncan had allowed me to wear the dragon-scale necklace. Upon my arrival at Dunkeld, I had immediately been taken to the abbey overseen by Duncan’s father and baptized in their Christian faith. My pendant of the hammer Mjolnir had been stripped from me, my only source of comfort since the death of my father. Duncan still held it somewhere, I was certain. I had feared he would do the same with the dragon-scale necklace.

“You married well, Duncan,” I said, aware of my bitter tone. “Now you have strong ties with York.”

Duncan drew his hand down across his face. “I don’t need York. I need those damn territorial bastards out of Bernicia. Complaints from Lothian plague me daily, cries for gold, ships, food, the likes of it all. There’s only so much Malcolm will allow me through Strathclyde . . .”

He had grown weary from the talk, it seemed, or maybe his face had been pale all morning and I had simply neglected to notice. His bread and stew remained untouched, the crust dissipating into the thick broth, forgotten.

I thought of a way I could help with his issue. Any opportunity there was for me to be useful, I took it. “Bring this matter to your father. Perhaps if he could speak on your behalf––”

_ “Mind your place, woman!” _ he bellowed.

My face grew hot and I resisted the urge to shout back, but it was Malcolm who began to bawl. I quickly turned to comfort him as best I could, but Duncan slammed his hands on the table and rose to his feet.

“For Christ’s sake, stop screaming like a baby!”

“Duncan!” I cried, a dull ache cramping my stomach. “He’s only a child! You needn’t . . .” A flood of unabating pain raging from my abdomen and between my legs scattered my train of thought. I groaned and did my best to keep my breath steady. The child was coming.

“What is it now, Sibylla?” Duncan said, irritation lingering in his voice.

It was as if a constricting band had been twisted inside me, being pulled and stretched as taut as could be. The band ebbed and relaxed while I breathed. “The child . . .” I managed rather than crying out.

Duncan blinked. _ “Where are the women?” _ I heard him shout as I exhaled through the pain.

They came quickly enough, and soon I was carried off by a strong man of Crinan’s household. The first bout of pain faded as we left the hall and I could see Malcolm sitting and watching me. Then Duncan stumbled away from his seat and collapsed out of sight.

_ Send for Crinan! _ I heard as the next bout took me. _ Someone watch the boy! _

For many long and strenuous hours, I struggled to push my child into the world. Once it was done, once the baby shrieked its first curse at the cold yet hopeful world, they placed my son in my arms. I smiled down at him as his tiny eyes closed shut and he fell asleep in quiet. My weariness caught up to me as I held him and he grew heavier in my arms. The women lifted him away, allowing me to rest. When I awoke, the world was still calm and the baby quiet, but Lord Crinan stood at my bedside cradling his newborn grandson. He was tall, golden, and commanding, a true lion of a man and head of the household. As Lay Abbot of Dunkeld and Mormaer of Atholl, he laid claim to a great amount of wealth and land, and through it he wielded power overshadowed only by that of the king, his father-by-law.

I only saw him as the man who governed me, the man who had stripped me of my freedoms more than my own husband.

I tried to sit up in the bed, but the muscles of my stomach screamed and ached.

“Rest, Sibylla,” said Crinan.

My baby sneezed in his arms as I relaxed myself.

“I have a few names in mind,” I said. “Good Scottish names. I promise they’re not—”

“Donald,” said Crinan.

There was a tug at my heart. First Malcolm, named by the Destroyer, now Donald, named by Lord Crinan. They were my children, and for once I wanted to have a say.

_ “Domhnall Bán,” _I added hastily. “For his fair looks.”

It was a far stretch, but even as a babe, I could tell he would be handsome. He was strong and healthy, and I was sure Duncan would be pleased. _ Duncan . . . _

Crinan pondered the thought for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “We shall call him Donalbain.”

“Where is Duncan?” I asked. Where was my husband at the moment of his son’s birth? He had been there for Malcolm’s, though uttering not a word, and he had been there for the stillborn . . .

But then I remembered, Duncan had collapsed.

_ “Rest, _ Sibylla,” said Crinan. “Your husband will be well.”

I sat forward, finding myself more alert. “You mean he is not now?”

My father-by-law would give me no more of his patience. He left me to myself, taking my newborn babe with him. Worry twisted knots in my aching body. I worried for Duncan, I worried for Malcolm, and I worried for myself. I worried for what I did not know and what I would find when I was no longer bid to rest. I could barely find a voice for my fears when the blonde-haired servant girl brought me a cup of wine and something to eat.

“Thank you . . .” I said, reaching first for the cup. “What is your name?”

“Rois, m’lady,” she said. Her hair was cropped boyishly short and perhaps if it were not so poorly washed, it would have shown like gold. It’s strange to say, but oftentimes I felt she looked like a young Duncan. Now that she had given me her name, I recognized her as one of Malcolm’s playmates. Crinan had been none too pleased to discover his grandson was mingling with the lowborns.

“Rois,” I tried on my own tongue, “could you tell me what’s happened to Prince Duncan?”

The girl frowned. “I’m afraid not, m’lady . . . They’ve got him shut up in his room, and only the physic and Lord Crinan himself are being let in. I’m sure you could visit him, m’lady.” She gave a slight bow and turned to leave.

“Stay a minute,” I said, craving distraction from my own mind. “Sit, if you will.” Rois obliged and crossed her legs on the floor. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen, m’lady,” she said.

“Do your parents live at Dunkeld?”

Rois eyed her feet nervously. “My mom’s been dead years, m’lady, since I was little . . .”

She told me of her mother’s village, the village she and her father had lived in after her mother had died. It had been burned and raided by Northmen one summer, she said, the people slaughtered. Her father had whisked her away on their horse named Brian and brought her to Atholl, to Dunkeld, where he sought an audience with Lord Crinan. She said her father must’ve been scared because she noticed how sweaty and tense he had become, but she had been exhausted from the ride and couldn’t be sure of anything at that moment. Neither was she sure of what words were exchanged between Lord Crinan and her father, but she was soon taken away from him, and in the morning told to work in the kitchens.

“I don’t know what happened to my dad . . .” she said, “but I haven’t seen him since they took me away.

“They took you from your father?” I asked. I had never liked Crinan, and I was beginning to like him even less.

Rois nodded, tears in her eyes, but it wasn’t sadness that I read on her face, rather it was something more like scorn with her eyebrows bearing down upon her lids and a look that could poison whomever it was directed toward.

Softly, I inquired again. “What was your father’s name?”

“Maldred,” she said, voice cracking. She hid her face in her arms. “No one’s ever cared before. I miss the village . . .”

“I’m sorry about your father and your mother, but I will ask Crinan where your father is, and maybe you can see him again.” It was doubtful, but I wanted to give the girl whatever hope I could. Such a young one shouldn’t have had to bear the world without a family.

Suddenly, she jumped from the floor. “Lord Crinan won’t like that you talked to me. He told me not to talk to anyone about my dad, but you asked me to . . . And I couldn’t refuse . . . Forgive me, m’lady . . . I should go . . .”

“Rois . . .” I started, but she had already gone.

The moment I rose from my bed, I rushed to see Duncan. As Rois had told me, he had been shut in his room with only Crinan and the physic allowed in. There were mutters that the Destroyer was on his way, and many feared the meaning of that sign. I paid no mind to their mutters. I only rushed to my husband’s bedside.

He had taken seriously ill, though Crinan reassured me over and over again that it was nothing and he would be well soon enough. The state of my husband had me feel otherwise. Duncan was pale and gray and had not woken for some time. Occasionally, he’d make a grunt of pain, but he had no fever and no difficulty breathing. I sat down beside him, taking his hand in mine.

“Duncan,” I whispered, “your son is born. He is strong and healthy and would like to meet you.”

My husband’s steady breathing was all I got in response. Though not the best of fathers, I knew he cared for his own and it would break my heart if Donalbain never met his father. I touched his face, a whisper barely escaping his lips.

Arms folded, Crinan turned away from me as someone knocked on the door. “What is it?”

_ “It’s . . . It’s Malcolm, my lord.” _

“Send the boy away,” Crinan growled. “He can come back another time.”

_ “No, not–– It’s the king, my lord.” _

Crinan cursed under his breath and left me and Duncan alone in the room. I brushed my thumb across my husband’s hand, thinking of our children. The Destroyer had once tried to claim our boy Malcolm, and I worried he might try it again. Or worse, I feared he might try to claim Donalbain. At first we couldn’t figure out where our Malcolm had gone, but once we did, Duncan saddled his horse and rode fast after his grandfather. That was the day I first saw any gleaming hope that love could thrive between us. I remained by his side now, praying that he may recover so we’d have a chance to let love grow.

Frantic voices grew louder from the hallway as I figured the king approached. I heard Crinan speak first, reciting courtesies while all other voices hushed. A wall and a door stood between me and the two men I hated most. I sat quietly, waiting to hear what they had to say.

_ “Where is my tanist,” _came the Destroyer’s unwavering voice. Time never seemed to age him, aside from continuing to slight his stature. Despite being unable to see the two of them, I could easily imagine Crinan towering over the king.

_ “I was under the impression you had gone south to meet with the boy king of England,” _said Crinan.

_ “In good time, but my grandson and heir takes precedence over some inexperienced child in the south.” _

They meant Harold. Naming him “boy” and “child” was right, for in my mind he was still thirteen. I hadn’t seen him since the day I left, but a lot had changed in those six years. Cnut was dead with Harold now the king of England, even though it was meant to be Art. The politics of that was something I hadn’t bothered to wrap my head around. As long as my brother was safe in England’s hands, I could care less who sat on that throne. Silently, I mourned for Cnut and the father he had been to me after the loss of my own, but my place was in Scotland now, no matter how much I was not wanted. Many nights I had to remind myself of this: I could no longer afford to be sentimental towards England and its royal family.

_ “You needn’t worry for Duncan,” _ Crinan assured the king, just as he had to me. _ “He will soon be well again, as he has always recovered before.” _

_ “Before? What do you mean before?” _

There was a pause before Crinan spoke again, the man wisely taking his time to measure his next words. _ “This sickness has come and gone since he was a child. It hasn’t ailed him for some time, but I swear to you, he will recover.” _

_ “You had better be right,” _ the king growled, _ “or else I will be forced to name Macbeth my tanist, and no one wants that.” _

_ “No . . .” _ Crinan said slowly, _ “they don’t.” _

My heart stopped as Duncan’s hand slipped from mine. At once, I thought I had lost him and our last conversation came back to me, our argument in the dining hall. Regret crept into my heart along with the pale fingers of grief until I saw him pull the covers closer to his body.

“Duncan?”

He had turned away from me, instead facing towards the voices conversing beyond our small bubble. I brushed my hand through his copper-gold hair.

“I wish I were dead,” he whispered.

The king was taking Crinan south with him, south and far away from Duncan. The king never even took it upon himself to visit his ailing grandson, but Duncan muttered to me in candlelight at the quiet hours of midnight. _ Sibylla, _he called me again and again. He didn’t want to see his grandfather anyway. He feared him.

Bent on catching Lord Crinan before the king’s caravan departed, I rushed down to the yard as quickly as I could, slip of parchment in hand. He turned his head away as soon as he noticed me running across the open field, skirts yanked high and away from my ankles. Running was not ladylike, and neither was fighting nor hunting nor working, or any of the good things that brought me joy. All they allowed me was embroidery and such, but that day I ran.

I brushed down my skirts as I reached Lord Crinan mounted on his great stallion.

“What is it you want?” he asked, not even looking me in the eye.

I handed him the letter I had written. “Please deliver this to Earl Siward of Northumberland,” I said, “my brother. I assume he’ll be with Harold when you meet him.”

Crinan muttered something of malcontent and flipped the letter over in his hand before tucking it into his crimson cloak. “Very well, I will do as you request.”

“There is one more thing . . .” I thought of Rois and the foul air that hung around the disappearance of her father. Crinan had something to do with it, I was sure. Afterall, the man had come seeking the mormaer of Atholl specifically.

Crinan raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

“Who is Maldred?” I asked.

His face contorted horribly at the name. I did not even know that such a calculating man could express bitterness to that extent, nor did I think anything I ever said could shock him as the simple mention of a man’s name had.

“Where did you hear that name?” he hissed.

He waited. I said nothing.

“The girl told you, didn’t she?”

Again, I said nothing, but the king’s caravan had begun to move out. The small host of men surged forward all around us. I picked up my skirts and stepped out of the way as one of Crinan’s retainers rode over to fetch him on the king’s behalf. Duncan should have been with them, I thought, but in truth I was glad to have him to myself.

Hearing what he had to say, Crinan dismissed the retainer and turned back to me.

“The girl will be removed by nightfall,” he said. “Do not speak to her again.”

His stallion galloped ahead as Crinan whipped the reins, leaving unspoken protests on the tip of my tongue. My heart told me to run after him and scream, _ it’s not her fault! _but my brain held me back and forced me to spin on my heel and push away from my impulses. Screaming would do nothing to help this girl, but I had to do something that would. Hastily, I came up with a plan that might save this girl’s life, but first I had to find her. In Dunkeld, she could have been anywhere.

Uilleag the stableman was the first servant I stumbled across in my search for Rois. He had not made it as far back as the stables yet and was helping to clear the yard of the mess that came with a host of men and their horses. I took him aside briefly, asking for Rois. He told me that she was certainly still in the kitchens for he hadn’t spotted her visiting the stables yet. There was a gray and white mottled horse that he said she visited often, Uilleag said. Brian, I guessed. I would remember that for later.

The dining hall was empty, the table cleared of all plates and cups. The rest of the house felt empty with the stillness in that hall. From the dining hall, a maid led me to the kitchens where I could see Rois helping to sort out what would go to the pigs down the road. She wiped off her hands on her already dirtied tunic as I entered, careful to avoid touching anything.

“Rois, you must come with me,” I said, taking her hand.

“What for, m’lady?” she asked, stumbling behind me.

“Just come.”

She showed me to where she slept, a sad little corner near Uilleag’s room closeby the stables. He had taken care of her after her father had gone, she explained.

“Now, what’s happening, m’lady?” she asked as she gathered what few belongings she had––a small and worn cloth doll, a cap for when the weather got cold, a leather journal––and I wondered at whether or not she could read or write.

“I’m sending you away,” I said.

I took her next to my room from which I snatched a cloak made for Malcolm, one that was yet too large for him, but would take care of Rois just fine.

“What for? Have I done something?” she asked.

I fastened the cloak with a plain brooch, one that wouldn’t call too much attention on the road. “No, you haven’t done anything, but I would see you leave Dunkeld safely before Crinan’s men take you.”

“Like Dad . . .” she sighed. “Where will I go?”

“South, to Strathclyde,” I said, lifting her up onto Brian, her father’s gray and white mottled horse. She hung onto him like an old friend, hiding half of her round, dirtied face in his dark mane. I made sure she had some food to start off the journey with. “Do you have a blade?” I asked.

She nodded, drawing forth a decently sharp dirk that had been tucked into a cloth scabbard at her belt.

“Good,” I said. “Don’t be afraid to use it. The king has few allies in Strathclyde, as does Crinan, so they won’t be likely to find you there. Seek out a convent. The nuns will take care of you if you study there and help them with work.”

“But I don’t want to be a nun––” Rois started, but I cut her off.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to be. I only ask that you find yourself somewhere safe. Just . . . remember to put the sun on your left, every morning. If you keep at that, you’ll be in Strathclyde in no time.”

Rois nodded, her mat of blonde hair bouncing up and down. Tears glistened in her eyes, and I gently brushed her cheek.

“I’ll find out what happened to your father, I promise.”

“Good-bye, Lady Sibylla.”

Brian carried Rois away from Dunkeld under the light of the midday sun. I had never prayed to the Christian god before, and yet while I called to Thor for Rois’s protection, I clutched my Celtic cross in hand.

With Rois safely beyond the reach of Crinan’s men, I returned to my husband’s side, carrying little Donalbain in my arms. The boy had a tuft of fine hair upon his small head. They were precious to me, the children I bore. They were the little comfort I had in the isolating household of Dunkeld.

“Let me see him . . .” Duncan said, reaching for his son.

The babe settled gently into his arms, and the fondness I saw there as Duncan gazed softly upon his son made my heart soar. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, holding Donalbain close to his chest.

“I will love him better this time,” he said.

“And you will continue to love Malcolm as well,” I insisted. The boy was stunted, I knew, but he could still grow to be strong, and his father could love him nonetheless.

Duncan grunted in what I took to mean agreement.

“Two sons . . .” he murmured. “You have done your part as wife.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “I am glad you are pleased. Do not forget that they are my sons as well, not only yours.”

“If you would wish so, I will not visit your chambers at night any longer.”

Stunned, I made no reply. It did not feel right to accept his offer nor did it feel right to deny him. Mostly, I did not want to seem too cold toward him nor too eager to find my way into his heart. “Duncan, I . . . I don’t know if we should commit to anything just yet . . .”

“You’ll want to tell me you’ve accepted before my father returns. Believe me, it’ll be better that way.”

Whether he meant no longer visiting me in the night-time or deciding before Crinan’s return remained unknown to me.

“They called you Suthen once,” said Duncan, “back in Cnut’s court. That was so long ago . . .”

My name had not been uttered since the day I left England. Never had I ever expected to hear it uttered on Duncan’s tongue. He opened his eyes again to see tears gleaming in mine. How soft was I that such a simple thing as a name could play the strings of my heart? My voice caught in my throat as I thought of the past. I had never asked much of Duncan’s youth and wondered if it would have made a difference if I had.

“Was there ever anyone else before me?” I asked. “Anyone you loved?”

He stroked the soft wisps of hair on Donalbain’s head. “There was . . .” He paused, pondered his words. “I had a close friend. Malcolm mac Malbrid. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

No, it hadn’t been what I was thinking, though I wondered what exactly he meant. “I remember him, I think. He was there, wasn’t he, with you and your grandfather in Cnut’s court? That man with the scar . . .”

Duncan nodded. “I took him for granted. The last time I saw him, I said some hateful things, and I think he turned back to his drink for solace.”

“I remember how torn you were when he died.” Shattered glass and spilled wine. I remembered the lingering smell of that wine and the rich sting of smoke. Duncan had lashed out violently as it was the only thing he knew to do.

“I wish he were here . . .” He stared forlorn at the darkening sky.

It began to rain not long after I had put Malcolm to bed. For a while, I sat with him, stroking his dark hair––dark like mine––and watching the rain trickle down the window. Thunder and lightning startled him, but fortunately the storm was a calm one, and he was able to fall asleep shortly. I planted a kiss on his forehead before heading out into the rain. Wooden bowl in hand, I lifted my cloak to shelter my face and the raw meat I brought with me.

Estrid, Cnut’s boys had named her, for their father’s sister. She perched patiently, twittering a little when she heard me enter. Duncan and Crinan kept their birds here too, though none were as swift and intelligent as my Estrid. She rustled her feathers in the damp cold, soft flecks of down floating to the ground. The other birds began to chitter and screech as I fed Estrid a few cubes of the meat I had brought from the kitchens. She pecked at the meal graciously. Duncan’s hawk screamed the loudest and flapped her wings to catch my attention. She was hungry and temperamental, just like her master. I gave her what was left of the meat I had brought. Her eyes watched me, judged me. Her final verdict allowed for a truce between us, and she ate what was offered. I pondered, wondering if it was an omen for my relationship with Duncan.

From the mews I could see the bailey, and beyond the bailey was the gate. Two men stood watching, probably shivering in the rain. They were only shadows from where I stood. Shadows that had just opened the gate in the dark of night. I set the bowl down next to Estrid’s keep and rushed down to the gate, wiping my filmy palms off on my cloak. _ Who could have come so late in the night without warning? _ I wondered.

The rain continued to come down in jagged sheets, thicker than before. The visibility was getting worse and worse the closer I got, but I could make out the light of the watchmens’ torches. I followed the light.

“Who’s come at this hour?” I shouted, hoping they would hear me. I was determined to deal with this so Duncan could rest.

“An envoy from Lochaber, my lady,” one said.

Behind the watchman were three horses and riders, soaked to the bone. My heart went out to them. They must’ve been freezing from their ride.

“Let them in,” I said, taking command of the situation. “I’ll have a fire started in the hall and something warm for you to drink.”

The envoy was a short woman with voluminous dark hair, the curls kept dry beneath her hood. She thanked me graciously for the beverage, warming her hands on the cup.

“Thank you, Lady Sibylla,” she said.

“Suthen,” I blurted, startling even myself.

The woman stared at me, a small smile twitching on her lips. “Suthen, then. I’m Muldivana.”

Everything about her was beautiful in that moment, the way the light from the fire made her damp skin glow, the fullness of her lips, her dark concealing eyes that I knew were hiding something. There was something about her, some air of mystery that hovered around her like a shadow. Maybe it was just her shadow . . .

She had a ring on her finger, one that meant she belonged to someone. I couldn’t envision this woman in the arms of a man.

“You’ll have to forgive me for coming at such a late hour—”

“All is forgiven!” I said, smiling like a fool. I took a moment to compose myself and shake that ridiculous grin from my face. “Ehm . . . Why have you come to Dunkeld?”

_ “An Forranach _would not hear what my lord Banquo has to say, so instead my lord sends me to do the talking,” she said with a cock of her head. “You would hear me out, my lady?”

“Seeing as the Lord Crinan is absent and my husband is at the moment indisposed, I shall do what I can.” It pleased me to have some new purpose put upon me. I was ready to help anyway I could.

Argyll to the south had been encroaching on Lochaber’s territory and had plans to build a series of strongholds along the border. Argyll had not listened to Lord Banquo’s reasoning, so he instead sent out a plea to the king. The king had given no reply, so instead Muldivana was sent to Dunkeld to ask on Lochaber’s behalf if Atholl and the crown would support them against Argyll’s encroachment.

Hearing out her plight, I agreed to do what I could. In the morning, I mused, I would send out letters to the petty thanes of Atholl and I would write to Argyll himself, and his wife, appealing to them as the wife of the next king and as a gentle woman. I despised doing so, but if I could use the guise to get my way, I would.

As I passed by Duncan’s room on the way to my bed, I noticed the door stood slightly ajar, so I peeked in. My little Malcolm had crawled into bed with his father, snuggled cozily under the covers, Duncan’s arm wrapped around him. I left them as they were, careful to close the door quietly. I had never felt so content in all my years at Dunkeld.

In the morning, I borrowed one of Crinan’s maps and set myself down to write to the thanes I knew by name. I wondered if there was a list somewhere in Crinan’s study that I could use as well. I suddenly wished I was allowed to sit in on conversations when Crinan and Duncan met with Atholl’s thanes. When I was queen, perhaps Duncan would allow me.

“Why did you not tell me my cousin had come?”

He stood supporting himself against the doorway, cloak draped around his shoulders. I rose.

“Duncan! You are on your feet again!”

He pushed past me, looking at the papers on my desk, moving the top ones aside to see what lay beneath. Secretly, I wished he would be impressed or grateful that I had taken this upon myself. I don’t think he had ever seen my handwriting before. 

“What is this,” he asked.

“Lady Muldivana came from Lochaber . . .”

“And you assumed to have the authority to meddle in affairs of the crown?”

He waved one of my thoughtfully worded letters before my face and I flinched. His voice was hard again, the way it had been before he fell ill. I missed the soft side of my husband already.

“I was only doing what I thought appropriate, seeing as neither you or your father were available . . .”

“Never, never again Sibylla!” _ Sibylla . . . _“You would do best to mind your place as a woman and my wife.”

He snatched up all the letters I had written and the ones I had only begun to write, some scattering to the floor. I stood very still. Perhaps he would forget I was there if I stood very still. My well of ink had toppled over and the jet black liquid ran across the surface of my desk, flowing over the edge like I imagined a longship might fall off the edge of the world. Perhaps if I stood very still, I would wake up from this reality into the true one where husbands didn’t yell at their wives and I would finally be free to go home. But where was home? I had no home. I was unwanted and alone.


End file.
